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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26778157">A Legacy of Empire</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dptullos/pseuds/dptullos'>dptullos</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Prole Office [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:47:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,687</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26778157</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dptullos/pseuds/dptullos</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Prole Office [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1974169</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Lieutenant Dmitri Vorremis shivered uncontrollably in the cold wind and drew his coat closer around his shoulders.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Winter in Vorbarra Sultana was nothing like the gentle chill of Vorloupoulos’s District.  Even his heavy fur coat couldn’t keep off the freezing gales that hammered against the side of the building, and Dmitri huddled down lower and hoped that his visitors would arrive soon.  The first flakes of snow were falling now, a sight that Dmitri always found beautiful when he was fortunate enough to be safely indoors.  Now they were only a reminder that he was stuck out here in the dark, cursing the oh-so-scientific weather predictions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The locals laughed at him.  They said that this was a warm and pleasant winter, nothing like a bad year, and Dmitri was horribly certain that they were telling the truth.  He had dreamed of seeing the capital, but none of the broadcasts had ever shown just how </span>
  <em>
    <span>cold </span>
  </em>
  <span>it could get.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he was a child, he had never understood just how unpleasant the Imperial Service could be.  All of the stories were of glory and honor, and no one mentioned how much time you spent standing around in the snow waiting for something to happen.  Dmitri was supposed to be out among the stars fighting Cetagandan invaders, not watching a storage building in the slums of Vorbarra Sultana.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Checking his watch, Dmitri saw that he’d been out here for almost an hour. He was starting to think that nothing was going to happen; it wouldn’t be the first time that his associates had failed to show up.  They were quick to abandon a meeting at the first sign of trouble, with no thought for how much difficulty it might cause for Dmitri.  He’d give it another hour or two, then go back inside and make some hot cider to warm himself up.</span>
  
  
</p><p>
  <span>“A bad night, Lieutenant.”  Dmitri began to turn, only to freeze in place when he felt cold steel pressing against the back of his neck.  “It’s a shame about the weather.”  He stood perfectly still, feeling his pulse pounding with fear.  “Why don’t you come inside where it’s warmer?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walked towards the storage building, careful not to make any sudden movements.  Footsteps crunched on the leaves behind him, and Dmitri made his way towards the concrete storage building.  He wanted to turn and look at the person behind him, but he knew that would be a mistake.  As long as he didn’t see their face, he could hope that they would let him live.    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri unlocked the heavy metal door with shaking hands, fumbling the keys twice before he managed to get it open.  A strong hand pushed him inside, and he stumbled into the storage room to find that the lights were already on, illuminating a short, powerfully built figure kneeling in front of an open crate.  The man looked up as Dmitri approached, narrow brown eyes staring at him through holes in the black mask that covered his face.  “I see that you brought the Lieutenant.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen,” Dmitri said.  “Listen.  Take whatever you want, I don’t know who you are and I don’t want to know.  I’m not going to give you any problems.”  He heard the man behind him laugh, a low, harsh sound, and he continued.  “I’ll give you money.  I have money…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We know,” the short man said wearily.  “We’re the ones who gave it to you.”  Dmitri looked at him in surprise, and the short man got to his feet.  “It’s here, sir.  I have everything we need.”  He was holding a dull grey sphere in his hand, and Dmitri took a long step backwards.  Back in basic training, he had seen what a sonic grenade could do to flesh and bone.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took a deep breath.  “You don’t want that,” he told the short man.  “Stunners and nerve disruptors will bring the municipal guard.  Sonic grenades will bring Imperial Security.  Take what you need, and I’ll cover for you, but leave the grenades.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The gun barrel pressed against the back of his neck again.  “What if Mister Rostov wants the grenades?,” the gunman asked.  “Are you saying no to your boss, Lieutenant?  That wouldn’t be wise.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri said very quickly, “There’s no need for the gun. I’m a friend to Mister Rostov.  I make sure that Mister Rostov gets what he needs.”  The man behind him laughed again, and this time there was real humor in it.  “Your boss can tell you that I've always been loyal.  Please, put the gun away.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He heard footsteps on the tile floor, and then the gunman was standing in front of him.  Some part of his mind recognized that the pistol in the tall man’s hand was an old Service-issue needler, and it was aiming directly at Dmitri’s head.  “Please,” Dmitri said again.  The gun shifted to point at Dmitri’s stomach, and he flinched in horror, drawing his coat tighter as though it could protect him.  "I did everything you asked.  You don't have to threaten me to get me to help you."  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tall man said, “Well, Lieutenant.  I’d like to thank you for all your help.”  He was wearing the same black mask as his comrade, but he reached up to pull it away, revealing a thin, scarred face with pale blue eyes.  Everyone in Vorbarra Sultana had seen that face on the broadcasts.  “You’ve done a great deal for the cause.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Comrade Captain" Mikhail Dubrov grinned at Dmitri.  “I’m afraid that we lied to you, little Vorling,” he said, his voice light and cheerful.  “You haven’t been helping “Mister Rostov” because “Mister Rostov” doesn’t exist. But the People’s Defense League does thank you for your support, Lieutenant.  When we bring down your rotten Imperium, I’ll make sure that your contributions are remembered.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dubrov.  Dubrov was here.  Dmitri had never imagined that the Comrade Captain would come to him.  He examined the man, searching for some sign of deception, but it was unquestionably him.  Dubrov’s smirk widened, and he lifted his hand in a mocking salute.      </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop taunting the boy, sir,” the short man said.  “Let’s get what we need and get out of here.”  Dubrov’s grin twisted into a scowl, and he turned to glare at his comrade, but the short man met his stare unflinchingly.  “We have a great deal to do, sir, and not much time to do it in.  If we’re going to get the job done in time, I can’t sit around while you amuse yourself taunting a Vor child.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the short man drew a nerve disruptor from his jacket, Dmitri said, “Wait.”  The man looked at him, and Dmitri could see regret in his eyes.  “I, I didn’t mean to be a traitor.  You have to let my mother know I didn’t break my oath.  I just wanted to make some marks to support my family, and I didn’t know.  I didn’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll make sure they know the truth,” the short man said gently.  “You just made some deals on the black market, Lieutenant.  That’s not treason.  We’ll make sure that your mother knows you didn’t betray the Emperor.”  He took off his mask, revealing a round face wearing a grave, solemn expression.  “I can promise you that much.”   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dubrov stepped forward, taking careful aim, and Dmitri crouched to leap at him, knowing that he would never make it.  He would die here like a Vorremis should, facing the enemy, but he would leave his mother alone.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry, Mom</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thought.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I did what I could.  </span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The door exploded off its hinges, and Dubrov flinched.  Needles hissed over Dmitri’s shoulder, and out of the corner of his eye Dmitri saw uniformed figures rushing through the door.  In the next instant, he slammed into Dubrov, bowling the taller man over, but Dubrov twisted to smash him into the floor.  Dmitri grabbed his wrist as he reached for the fallen needler, but Dubrov was impossibly strong.  He broke free with effortless strength, hurtling Dmitri away, and he came to his feet just as Dubrov rose with the needler in one hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A stunner whined behind him just as Dubrov’’s finger tightened on the trigger, and Dmitri’s last sight before blackness claimed him was the snarl on Dubrov’s face. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The light drove into his skull like a knife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri raised a hand to protect himself, but he couldn’t shut out the pain.  He felt like he was going to die, and that was perfectly all right.  Death would be a merciful release from how he felt right now.  He would never have thought that being shot in the head would hurt so badly; the needler should have killed him instantly.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get up, Lieutenant.”  He groaned in pain, but the voice kept talking.  “You won’t want to miss this.”  Strong hands grabbed his uniform and pulled him to his feet, and he finally opened his eyes, blinking in pain against the harsh, pitiless light shining down from the ceiling.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was not in heaven.  He was not in hell, either, though Dmitri thought that ImpSec Headquarters was far closer to the second place than the first.  He was standing in the middle of a tiny room with concrete walls, a small cot, and a single chair.  It seemed oddly familiar, and after a second he recognized it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You had me in one of the prison cells,” he said.  Now that his eyes were finally working, he could see Irina smiling at him.  “How long was I out?  Did you take Dubrov alive?”  Dmitri stumbled, and Irina grabbed his arm and began helping him towards the door.  “How am I still alive?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irina said, “About fourteen hours.  Yes, we did take Dubrov alive.”  He felt an overwhelming sense of relief.  Five years sitting in old storage buildings, selling military supplies to criminals.  Towards the end, Dmitri had started to believe that the trap wasn’t going to work.  He should have known better than to doubt the old man.  “And you’re still alive because I shot you.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked at Irina, and she shrugged.  “You were in the way,” she told him.  “I got Dubrov, too, which is why he didn’t manage to kill you.  He’s in interrogation, along with his friend.  The Major is down there with them, but he said to bring you as soon as you felt up to it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I feel fine,” Dmitri said.  Irina’s face radiated skepticism, but she kept marching down the corridor.  His head didn’t hurt quite as much as it had before, so he was merely blinking back tears of pain instead of feeling like someone was driving iron spikes through his eyes.  Raising a hand, he felt a huge lump on his temple.  After Irina stunned him, he must have fallen on the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The walk down the corridor seemed to take forever, though Dmitri knew that it wasn’t more than fifty meters to the interrogation room.  When they finally turned the corner, he saw a chair positioned in front of the glass wall.  Dmitri lowered himself gratefully onto the padded seat, leaning back with a sigh, and looked at the scene in front of him.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Major Jonas Neumann sat on one side of a heavy iron table in the interrogation room, dressed in a plain black suit that made him look more like a shopkeeper than an officer.  The short man sat on the other side, shackled to a chair, his face wearing an expression that combined exhaustion with defiance.  “You’re not going to wear me down, cockroach,” the short man said flatly.  “I’ve faced worse in my time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, you have,” Major Neumann said politely.  “The experts interrogated you for twelve hours, and they didn’t get anything meaningful.”  He frowned down at the folder that lay open in front of him, considering the papers within.  “Comrade Sergeant Nicholas Aubert. You stand accused of the murders of thirty-nine members of the Augustgrad Municipal Guard, twelve soldiers of the Imperial Service, and three Imperial Security officers.”  A faint smile crept over the prisoner’s features.  “You also stand accused of the murders of six of the Emperor’s subjects.”  The smile disappeared, and Aubuert’s face went utterly blank.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a long silence, Aubert said, “Why are you here, Major?  You didn’t come to gloat, and you know that I won’t talk.  I’ve been with the League since the Augustgrad Rising, and I will die before I betray my comrades.”  Dmitri could hear the pride in Aubert’s voice, an iron certainty like a Vor out of the old stories, the warrior heroes who laid down their lives to build Dorca’s Imperium.  “What do you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want your bombs,” Neumann told him.  “Gravitronic explosives are delicate, dangerous things, Comrade Sergeant.  You would have been able to handle them, but I doubt that any of your comrades have your skill.  I think both of us would prefer that they were safely disposed of before the People’s Defense League accidentally sets off a bomb in the shopping district of Vorbarra Sultana.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aubert tilted his head, and Dmitri realized with surprise that he was actually considering the old man’s words.  “How do I know you won’t use them as bait for my comrades?,” he asked.  “Director Illyan would be very happy with an officer who found my bombs </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>the rest of my cell.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neumann smiled ever so slightly.  “I’m no Vor, Comrade Sergeant,” he said.  “I don’t have a word to give, and ImpSec is not an honorable institution.  But we are both soldiers in a very long war, and it benefits me to have a reputation for keeping my bargains.”  Aubert’s eyes narrowed, and he stared at the Major.  The old man continued, as calm and pleasant as if he was having a conversation with an old friend.  “Give me the location, and I will call the municipal bomb disposal squad.  They will arrive with sirens blaring, scare off anyone lurking around the area, and seize your explosives.  I’ll leak the story to the League, and the next time I talk with a prisoner, they’ll know that I held up my end of the deal with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Some people,” Aubert replied, “would say that cooperating with the cockroaches is treason against the People.  They would say that we need those weapons to kill you.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neumann said, “Comrade Captain Dubrov was very insistent on that point.  But in my experience, Comrade Sergeant, the People’s Defense League is quite capable of killing ImpSec officers without unstable explosives.”  His hand rose to trace the long white line that ran down the side of his face.  “Your friends can use needlers and hunting rifles and even knives, if they must.  Give me the bombs, and you won’t have to worry about them killing civilians or even themselves with a careless mistake.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri watched Aubert, searching for any hint of his thoughts, but the terrorist’s round, pleasant features were unreadable.  Major Neumann waited in silence, hands resting on the table, as polite and attentive as if Aubert was Director Illyan himself.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The old warehouse on the corner of Vorholland Street,” Aubert said abruptly.  “The bombs are down in the basement.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The old man brought out a comlink and activated it.  “Corporal Dabrowski,” he said, “This is Major Neumann.  Go to Vorholland Street at once with full sirens and lights, and order the municipal guard to evacuate the neighborhood.  There are gravitic explosives stored in the basement of the warehouse on the corner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He clicked the comlink off, and Aubert leaned back in his chair.  “We’re done here,” he told the Major.  “I’m ready for my “trial”.  Try to make it quick; I wouldn’t want your people to bore me to death before they have a chance to execute me.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Major Neumann rose to his feet, and two large, uniformed men marched in behind Aubert, unshackled him from the chair, and lifted him to his feet.  He stood between them, a prisoner under sentence of death, eyes fierce and utterly unafraid.   “The Revolution endures, Major,” Aubert declared.  “The People will rise!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door slammed behind the guards, and Neumann rubbed his eyes wearily.  He would probably get a medal for catching Dubrov and Aubert, but the old man didn’t seem triumphant.  Dmitri watched as he slowly got to his feet, gathering his papers, and left the interrogation room.  He sat a moment longer, gathering his strength, then forced himself to follow.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The corridors were empty and deserted.  Higher up in the building, there were people coming and going at all hours of the day and night, but the lower levels were abandoned.  The Major lived down here, among the prison cells and interrogation rooms, far from the light of the sun.  Dmitri shivered, and walked faster.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He would need to get used to it.  Dmitri had chosen to serve the Emperor through His Imperial Security, and that meant that he would have to spend time in this windowless monstrosity.  One more reason to be grateful that he was a field agent rather than an analyst..  The cold of Vorbarra Sultana was positively welcoming compared to the damp, menacing atmosphere of Imperial Security’s Headquarters, and the prospect of horrible death was still more attractive than spending most of his days locked down here.    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Major Neumann’s office was a small, cramped room with bare concrete walls, a space more suitable for a prisoner than a senior officer of Imperial Security.  A dozen space heaters hummed furiously, fighting against the chill that crept in through the walls.  The Major was bent over the desk, busily typing away on his console, but he glanced up as Dmitri walked in.  He saluted and snapped to attention.  “Lieutenant Dmitri Vorremis reporting for duty, sir!”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At ease,” Major Neumann said, turning to face him.  “You’ve done well, Dmitri.”  He fought back a grin, trying to keep his face composed and professional.  Six generations of the Vorremis family had served the Emperor before him, and he thought that all of them would be proud of him now.  “Now you need to think about your future.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My future, sir?”  There was no way that the Major would reject him now.  He had chosen Dmitri personally, recruiting him on the day of his graduation from the Academy, and he had played the role that Neumann had laid out for him, delivering two veteran terrorists into the old man’s trap.  Surely he wouldn’t turn Dmitri away.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dark brown eyes examined him closely, and Dmitri had the sudden, unsettling feeling that the old man was reading his thoughts.  “There are other offices in Imperial Security, Lieutenant,” he said patiently.  “Offices where you could do important work for the Emperor, where your work might draw the attention of senior officers or even Director Illyan himself.  I would not want you to think that your apprenticeship here is your only opportunity within Imperial Security.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could go to the Vor Office.”  Irina appeared at his side soundlessly, and she grinned as Dmitri flinched.  “Prole terrorists aren’t much of a threat to our beloved Emperor, Vorling.  Most of Imperial Security’s best agents spend their days rooting out traitors among your people, not crawling through the slums hunting for fanatics who believe in the People’s Revolution.”  Her sharp features softened in a genuine smile.  “But I think our little Vorling has developed a taste for our work, Major.  He’s never been one for making the </span>
  <em>
    <span>smart </span>
  </em>
  <span>decision.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took ten slow, deliberate breaths to calm down and remember that Irina wasn’t a bad person, not really.  She’d saved his life.  And it wasn’t as if she was wrong.  It was only logical that the greatest threat to the Emperor would come from the people in power, not desperate terrorists hiding in a basement.  He could deal with Irina’s insults to him, and even her remarks about the Vor.  He would have to.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri said, “I would prefer to remain within this office, sir.”  Major Neumann nodded gravely, and Irina slapped him on the back hard enough to stagger him.  Resisting the urge to glare at her, he kept speaking.  “I have a great deal to learn here, and I am eager to get started.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excellent,” Major Neumann said.  The old man examined him, and Dmitri realized that he must look half-dead, standing there in the same wrinkled uniform he had been wearing last night.  “You can begin by going home and getting some rest.  You can return on Tuesday morning.”  Dmitri opened his mouth to protest, then closed it when the Major stared at him.  “Give your mother my regards, Lieutenant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was oddly disappointing to be sent home after everything that had happened, but it had been too long since he had seen Mom or burned an offering at his father’s grave.  And it would be very embarrassing to fall over on his first day.  So instead of arguing, he bowed his head in assent and backed out of the room, leaving the Major to his work.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, and Irina.”  Dmitri saw her turn towards the Major, face suddenly alight with suspicion.  “You are due more than a few days of leave. I think you should take this opportunity to visit your new colleague’s home and meet his family.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irina said, “Sir, with all due respect, I don’t think Dmitri wants me to visit, and I certainly don’t want to spend my leave time visiting some Vor manor in the countryside where they’ll probably spend all their time talking about horses.”  Dmitri stiffened with outrage, and she added, “Nasty, filthy beasts.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Major Neumann sighed.  “I wasn’t making a request, Irina.  Go to the Lieutenant’s home, enjoy your vacation, and make sure that he stays safe while he is away from us.”  Irina snapped to attention and saluted perfectly; Dmitri stepped forward to protest that he didn’t need her protection.  “Lieutenant, you have your orders.  Carry them out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The old man’s eyes went to the only picture on his desk.  Three people stood within, smiling out at the camera.  Neumann looked younger in the photo, with fewer lines in his face, while Irina seemed much the same, looming confidently over the Major with a hand on his shoulder.  The third figure stood to Neumann’s right, dressed in the formal red and blue of a Service dress uniform.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Captain Pavel Vorkotov stared out at Dmitri, a broad smile on his face, frozen forever in his moment of triumph.  Dmitri looked at the picture of his predecessor and his complaints died unspoken on his tongue.  “Yes, sir.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The image of Vorkotov stayed with him as he walked out of the office, up from the basement, and out of the building.  Even in the sunlight, he could not shake the coldness that ran through him as he thought of Major Neumann’s first apprentice, who had given his Emperor the last full measure of his devotion.    </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The grave was empty.</p>
<p>Dmitri’s Dad had died in space, and they had never recovered the body.  His gravestone stood at the edge of the family plot, with fresh flowers resting at the foot of the small stone monument.  There was a plot beside it marked out for Mom, and Dmitri could see the place where his own body would one day rest.  </p>
<p>“Rest in peace, Dad,” he whispered.  “Until the Sea shall give up her dead, and we shall enter into the life everlasting.”  </p>
<p>He placed a lock of his hair in the brazier that lay beside the gravestone and struck a match.  As the smoke rose towards heaven, he bowed his head and prayed.  God, forgive my father.  He wanted to die in a just war, defending his nation.  He fought as an honorable soldier should.  Forgive him and take him to Your Heavenly Kingdom, to live forever with the saints and angels.  Amen.</p>
<p>He stayed there a moment longer, then rose to his feet.  “Goodbye, Dad,” Dmitri said quietly.  He always felt better after visiting his father.  The sun shone down brightly as he walked out of the graveyard, heading towards the distant sound of voices.</p>
<p>Mom and Irina had set up a picnic lunch by the time that he arrived, laying a blanket down in the grass in the shade of an old oak tree.  He took a seat and an apple pie while Mom continued to tell Irina all about her favorite subject.  By the sound of things, she had been talking for some time, and Dmitri knew that she could go on for hours more.  </p>
<p>“You must understand the temperament of your horse,” Mom said.  “Some horses are simply not suited to children, but they are not at fault.  It is always the teacher who is to blame if the child is not matched properly to their steed.”  </p>
<p>Irina’s eyes were glazing over, and Dmitri smiled at her.  “You should take Irina riding, Mom,” he suggested.  “I’m sure that she would have a wonderful time.”  When Mom turned towards him, beaming with approval, Irina ran her finger across her throat.  Dmitri only grinned more widely.</p>
<p>“Perhaps you can go riding together,” Mom said, a certain look in her eye, and Dmitri choked on his sandwich.  Irina was pretty in her own way, with short-cropped black hair and dark eyes, but Dmitri would not have courted her even if she was not his colleague.  Horror flashed briefly across Irina’s face as she finally understood what his mother was suggesting, and she hastily shook her head.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, Madam Vorremis, but I have a great deal of work to do.  Perhaps another time.”  Irina took another bite from her own pie.  “This is delicious.  How did you learn to cook so well?”  </p>
<p>“Well,” Mom said brightly.  “I cooked for my own husband, of course, and I often make gifts for my neighbors.”  Gifts.  Mom made a great many gifts for her neighbors, just as she often volunteered to teach horseback riding to their sons and daughters.  When he was younger, Dmitri had volunteered to help on neighboring farms. He had often been exhausted when he staggered home, but it was not a job.  </p>
<p>Vor did not have jobs.  Mom and Dmitri were Vor, so clearly what they did was not work.  If the people they chose to help happened to give them food and clothing, they were just being generous.</p>
<p>Things were better now, but it still wasn’t easy..  A civilian with Dmitri’s education would be earning twice as much as he did.  Even if he one day earned promotion to a higher rank, Dmitri would struggle to support a family.  His wife would have to work- or not-work- just to make ends meet.  </p>
<p>There was no other life he could have chosen.  No other life he could have wanted.  A Vorremis served his Emperor, and Dmitri had known since he was a small child that he would enter the Imperial Service.  “Irina,” he said, suddenly curious.  “What did you want to be as a child?”</p>
<p>Irina’s lips turned up in a polite smile .  “Oh,” she said.  “I wanted to be a great Vor lady.  Like your mother.”  Mom looked at her with amusement.  “I dreamed that one day, a handsome prince would take me to a golden palace, where an army of servants would wait on my every word.”  She took a deep drink of water from the glass at her side.  “Instead, Major Neumann took me to Imperial Security.  It wasn’t exactly what I had dreamed of, but the Major is a good man.  He helped me when I needed it the most.”</p>
<p>He didn’t ask any more questions.  They ate in silence for a time, devouring his mother’s pie, and Dmitri absently wondered if he would ever get to meet Irina’s parents.  He doubted it.  In the five years that they had known each other, he had told Irina about his own family, but he still knew next to nothing about her own past.  </p>
<p>The Security part of him wanted to investigate, to find out what she could be hiding.  Common sense told him that he did not want to offend his senior colleague.  Irina was being perfectly respectful in front of Mom, and he was going to repay that courtesy by staying out of her business.  </p>
<p>Mom said, “Such a shame that Major Neumann couldn’t be here with us.  If he ever does have a day off, please do let him know that he’ll always be a welcome guest.”  Irina inclined her head politely, though Dmitri wasn’t sure if Neumann had ever had a vacation.  For that matter, he’d never seen the old man leave Headquarters.  It was hard to imagine him sitting on a picnic blanket in the warm sunlight, having a pleasant conversation about horses.  </p>
<p>His wrist comm hummed, interrupting his thoughts.  Dmitri heard the same sound coming from Irina’s wrist, and she lifted her hand, glancing at the message.  Her eyes widened abruptly, and an expression of horror flickered across her face and was gone in the space of an instant. When she turned to Mom, she was wearing a polite smile that almost hid the underlying tension.  “Madam Vorremis,” Irina said politely.  “I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality.  But duty calls, and we have to go.”  She shot a meaningful glance over at Dmitri, who hurriedly crammed the rest of the pie into his mouth.  “Right now.”  </p>
<p>Concern and fear flickered through his mother’s eyes, but she had been a soldier’s wife before she was a soldier’s mother.  “Of course, Irina,” she said.  “Dmitri, may God go with you and keep you safe.”  She leaned in to plant a kiss on his forehead.  He hugged her tightly, trying to reassure Mom.  Trying to reassure himself.  </p>
<p>Then he followed Irina away from his home, back to the Imperial Service.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The parlor was littered with bodies.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a moment, Dmitri turned away, fighting back the bile rising in his throat.  When he had recovered enough to look at the scene again, he noticed that Irina was examining the room dispassionately.  He forced himself to take a step towards her, then another, and tried to look down at the scene with an investigator’s eyes.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once he recovered from the initial shock, it was easy to see what had drawn Irina’s attention.  The dead man was wearing a sarong wrapped around his waist, dried blood turning the blue cloth black.  Dmitri’s feeling of nausea was briefly overwhelmed by an even stronger feeling of cold, detached horror.  “Irina…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see it, Vorling,” Irina told him.  “We have a Betan corpse on our hands.”  Her face twisted into a grimace.  “They left their manifesto on the table, Vorremis.”  She gestured towards the beautiful antique in the center of the room, shining and spotless among the carnage.  “Forensics is looking it over now, but this group isn’t like the others.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri said, “No.  No, they aren’t.”  A Vor man was lying dead on the ground, two swords driven through his body into the wooden floor.  A woman who might have been his wife had been dumped next to him with a Vorfemme knife in her heart.  That, by itself, might have made a cruel kind of sense.  The People’s Defense League was at war with the Vor, after all, and they could provide some kind of justification for terrorist atrocities against his class.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of the room was simple insanity.  Guests, servants, even children had all been stacked around the dining room, still and motionless.  A line of yellow tape locked him away from a closer view, and Dmitri was grateful for that.  He did not envy Forensics their duties in this case.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irina took his arm and guided him away from the sight.  “Entry point was the front door, Lieutenant,” she told him.  There were scorch marks on the side of the door, where they had blown it open with some kind of breaching charge.  “They probably tossed a stun grenade in first, to paralyze the room.  No lethal weapons, not at first.  And once everyone was unconscious…,” she waved at the dead bodies.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A figure in a full-body Forensics suit walked through the kitchen doors with a thick set of papers in their hands.  They handed the papers to Dmitri, saluted briskly, and walked back to their work without another word.  He looked down at the documents reluctantly, feeling strangely unwilling to see what they said. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>People of Free Barrayar</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the first paper said.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>We are betrayed.  Betrayed by the Tyrant Vorkosigan, who left his men to die at Escobar</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  That was a lie.  Admiral Vorkosigan had done all he could to save his men.  But it was a common enough accusation from the League, which always sought to blame the Regent for Barrayar’s defeat.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>And now the Tyrant betrays us yet again, selling Barrayar to foreign powers</span>
  </em>
  <span>!  </span>
  <em>
    <span>He seeks to give all we have to Betans and Komarrans, to keep honest Barrayarans poor while galactics glut on our nation’s wealth.  This strike is the first blow for a reborn Barrayar, free from the taint of galactic influence and the corruption of native-born traitors!  We call all loyal Sons of Barrayar to join us in our fight!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a handwritten signature at the very end, scrawled with a flourish across the paper.  </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Colonel Kristof Galitsin</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Wordlessly, he passed the papers over to Irina.  Her eyes hardened as she scanned them quickly, then read through another time more slowly, inspecting each word on the manifesto.  “Dmitri,” she said quietly.  “Most of the Defense League cells </span>
  <em>
    <span>love </span>
  </em>
  <span>galactics.  They want to get rid of all the Vor and make us into Beta or Escobar.  We have a new problem on our hands.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had taken everyone in the house alive and then murdered them deliberately, just to send a message.  Comrade Sergeant Aubert might have been a traitor and a terrorist, but he hadn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted </span>
  </em>
  <span>to kill noncombatants.  Dmitri took a deep breath, then another, and looked away from the scene.  He had to focus, to examine the room as Major Neumann would, like a veteran Security man instead of a green boy.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have a name,” Dmitri said.  “That’s a start.”  A breaching charge through the door, followed by a stun grenade.  “They had military training and equipment.”  A Betan man dead on the floor, with a knife wound through his heart.  “They knew that there was a Betan visitor.  Who knew that this family would have a guest tonight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irina nodded sharply.  “Forensics is sending the evidence to the Major,” she told him.  “They can handle the crime scene.  We need to get more information on the victims.  Why was a Betan visiting the country house of a rich Vor?  It’s not like you people are welcoming to foreigners.”  He opened his mouth to automatically defend the hospitality of the Vor, and Irina grabbed his shoulder and turned him towards the door.  “Shake it off, Vorling.  These won’t be your last corpses.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri obediently followed Irina out the doors, onto a beautiful lawn with rich flowerbeds.  It seemed impossible that a house like this could be the scene of a massacre.  More Forensics techs were going over the grass and the stone path, searching for some trace of the attackers, and they moved carefully through a tangle of yellow tape, careful not to disturb their work.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His wrist comm buzzed, and Dmitri looked down at the message.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Colonel Galitsin was Sultana Ninth Regiment.  Contact A.H. for more information.  All necessary measures approved in advance</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irina glanced up from her own wrist comm.  “Change of plans, Lieutenant,” she said.  “We’re going to Augustgrad.  We have an old friend there who might know Galitsin.”  Her smile did not reach her eyes.  “I’m sure that he’ll love to meet you.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They were flying over the corpse of a city.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From the sky, Dmitri could see small islands of light and life surrounded by an ocean of darkness.  He felt even more grateful that they were going into Augustgrad by air instead of taking a groundcar; Dmitri would not have wanted to drive among the silent factories and decaying houses, alone in what had once one of the greatest cities on Barrayar.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he was a child, he had visited his great-uncle’s mansion, the ancestral home of his mother’s people.  It was a great house, large enough to hold twenty Vormorisses and their servants in comfort, but Uncle Vormorris had lived alone, in a single room on the bottom floor.  Dmitri had been terrified to wander out among the empty rooms, certain that the ghosts of the Vormorisses were waiting to pounce on him.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Augustgrad held a great many ghosts, but Dmitri was more concerned about the living.  The empty parts of the city were not all abandoned, and their residents held little love for the Emperor or his servants.  Imperial Security did not usually send green agents into Augustgrad.  When they did, all of those agents did not come back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looked over at Irina, but she seemed remarkably unworried.  Perhaps she was just better at hiding it, or maybe her ongoing argument was taking all of her concentration.  “Authorization Code One Three Seven Seven Two Alpha Four,” Irina said, sounding dangerously patient.  “I do not care about your schedule.  If you interfere with Imperial Security, you will be directing traffic on Kyril Island before the week is done.”  She paused, and Dmitri heard a garbled voice muttering something about “permission”.  “We are landing now, damn your permission.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irina slammed the controls down, driving them into a steep dive, and Dmitri clung to the seat for dear life.  They pulled up meters above the ground, and Irina slid to a dangerously fast halt on a landing pad.  Dmitri held on until his hands stopped trembling, then scowled at Irina.  “I can’t believe you’re allowed to fly,” he told her.  “Did the Major have to pull strings to let you keep your license?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She didn’t answer, which he took as a </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Unbuckling his seatbelt, he climbed out of the passenger door and stumbled onto the blessed ground.  At least if the terrorists killed him it would be on purpose.  Irina hopped down after him, head swiveling from side to side in search of danger.  High concrete walls topped with razor wire loomed around them, and the only way out was a single narrow opening sealed by a heavy crossbar.    </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dmitri made sure that his hands were clearly visible as he walked towards the door.  There were shadowy figures atop the walls, and he could see the distinct outline of crew-served needlers.  A Vorremis should be ready to die for his Emperor, but Dmitri did not plan to lose his life to nervous militia soldiers with heavy weapons.  The crossbar rose when he drew near, and he barely contained a sigh of relief as he passed through the opening without being turned into a fine red mist.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irina walked one step behind him at his right side, the proper place of a subordinate.  She was dressed in grey pants and a blouse, the kind of outfit a progressive prole woman might wear on her way to work, and she looked nothing like an agent of the Emperor’s will.  Dmitri felt unpleasantly conspicuous in his undress greens with the silver Horus eyes pinned to his collar.  He knew that the Emperor’s uniform was a mark of pride and honor; it was also increasingly obvious to him that it was an excellent target for a sniper.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No one shot him as he drew close to the inner compound, a low structure of concrete and steel built in the best traditions of Imperial Security Headquarters.  Soldiers stood at attention to either side of the main gates, and Dmitri let himself relax a little.  Augustgrad was not populated </span>
  <em>
    <span>entirely </span>
  </em>
  <span>by the People’s Defense League and their supporters, and he might have been slightly too paranoid.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A scream ripped through the night, and Dmitri frantically ripped his nerve disruptor from his holster and threw himself flat on the ground.  Aiming down the sights, he saw...soldiers in camouflage.  District militia.  Thankfully, none of them were looking at him, so he scrambled quickly to his feet and brushed himself off.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Irina tuck a small needler into the sleeve of her blouse.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please, please, please,” a voice sobbed.  “I don’t know anything.”  As he looked more closely, Dmitri could see that there was a man in civilian clothes among the militia.  The man was young, probably no more than twenty-one or twenty-two, and he was dressed in a formal suit and tie,   His hands were cuffed behind his back, and Dmitri watched as one of the militia pushed him over.  He landed hard, with no way to break his fall, and immediately curled into a ball as they started kicking him.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dmitri broke into a run towards them, and one of the militiamen looked up as he approached, hand going to the stunner at his side.  He must have seen the Service uniform, because he shifted his hand away and delivered a savage kick to the prisoner’s ribs.  Dmitri heard something break with an audible </span>
  <em>
    <span>crack</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and he skidded to a stop between them just as the militiaman was drawing his foot back again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop,” Dmitri gasped.  “This...this is not efficient.  Not, not best practices.”  The Major’s words came to him automatically, and he could almost hear the old man’s voice.  “You won’t get him to talk if you hurt him too badly to speak.  Have you checked for a fast-penta allergy?”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The leader had a captain’s rank insignia and a smooth, round face with absolutely no expression.  “Yes,” he said.  “He’s not immune.  He’ll live to see interrogation.  Now get out of the way, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lieutenant</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dmitri said softly, “I’m sorry.”  The captain nodded curtly and gestured for him to move.  “I was not finished.  Your actions disgrace your uniform, your Count, and your Emperor.  Stand aside and give us the prisoner.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was suddenly very aware that the militia had formed a half-circle behind their captain, hands hovering perilously close to their holsters.  Irina stepped forward so that she stood beside him, one hand already reaching inside the sleeve of her blouse.  The captain was taller and bigger than Dmitri, and he was close enough so that Dmitri would not have time to draw his disruptor if the captain rushed him.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A cold, sharp voice said, “Is there a problem here?  We all have a great deal of work to do, and I cannot tolerate interruptions.”  Dmitri turned his head to see a tall, slender man in undress greens standing behind them.  The officer walked over to the prisoner, who was sobbing incoherently, and reached into the suit jacket to bring out a small bundle of papers.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The Future of Barrayaran Democracy.”  The officer tossed the papers aside carelessly.  “Seditious nonsense.  Thank you for delivering this prisoner, gentlemen.  I will share what I learn as soon as I have a chance to interrogate him.”  He rose to his full height, and Dmitri saw that he had Horus eyes and a major’s rank tabs.  “Dismissed.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The captain spun on his heel and marched out, with his squad in step behind him.  Dmitri realized that he was clutching his disruptor, and he slowly pried his fingers loose.  The prisoner was still curled into a ball, and the major hissed with annoyance.  “Guard,” he barked.  “Fetch a stretcher for this man!  He’ll need medical care before I can put him under fast-penta!”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he strode away, heading for the compound, Dmitri followed him with only a single glance back at the prisoner.  He wanted to ask the major if he could have the militia stripped of their positions, possibly even prosecuted, but something about the man’s posture suggested that he was not interested in suggestions.  Irina’s face was still and calm, and he remembered that she’d backed him up without hesitation.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The major said, “Idiots.  I am surrounded by idiots.  My thanks to both of you.  I doubt the prisoner will have anything of value to share, but they could have killed him if you hadn’t interfered.  Some people simply do not understand the importance of professional behavior.”  Dmitri nodded hesitantly, but the major continued without a pause.  “Neumann sent you.  A capable man, a worthy student of Captain Negri.  He was the only one who managed to extract anything from Prisoner 3217.  Perhaps you will be able to repeat his success.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He led them over to the side of the compound, far from the main gates. A set of elevator doors stood there, gleaming in the harsh radiance of the spotlights that illuminated the compound. The major entered a code into the keypad beside them, and the doors slid open. He waved them in and departed without another word, stalking off in the direction of another group of militia who were marching into the compound with a fresh set of prisoners. Before the elevator doors closed, Dmitri saw them herding the line of terrified boys and girls towards the major, who was barking orders to get the suspects inside </span>
  <em>
    <span>at once</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The elevator slowly began to descend, lowering them into the depths of the earth, and Irina said, “Well, Dmitri.  Welcome to Augustgrad.”  </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Irina…,” he said, slowly and carefully.  “That was…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “We’ll file a complaint, Dmitri, but it won’t do any good.  If Count Vormarchand finds out that one of his militia captains nearly beat some idiot child to death, the man will probably get a promotion.”  She scowled, but Dmitri did not think the expression was directed at him.  “Get your head right, Lieutenant.  We’ll talk about this later; right now I need you focused on the mission.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, ma’am,” he said.  There would be time for questions later.  In this moment, he had to be a true servant of the Emperor, absolutely focused on his duty.  There was no space for distractions or doubts.  When they reached their destination, though, he could still see the prisoner’s face covered in blood and tears.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The elevator doors swung open, and Dmitri stepped out into a tiny corridor.  It was less than ten feet long from beginning to end, and the far wall was made entirely out of glass.  Behind the glass, a small man in a prisoner’s brown uniform stared back at him, then raised a hand in greeting.  His own hand rose automatically.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irina said, “Comrade Colonel, I regret to inform you that the Emperor is still on his throne.  The Republic of Barrayar has not yet arrived, though your comrades are still fighting the long war.  Oh, and Major Neumann has a new apprentice.  Introduce yourself, Dmitri.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lieutenant Dmitri Vorremis of the Imperial Service,” Dmitri said.  “It’s…,” he caught himself before he could say </span>
  <em>
    <span>a pleasure to meet you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  “I’ve heard a great deal about you, sir.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henderson chuckled.  “They still teach you about me?,” he asked.  The "Comrade Colonel" looked more like an old professor than a hardened terrorist, with a handsome, smiling face and old-fashioned glasses.  “I’m honored to have Imperial Security studying my work.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Comrade Colonel" Arthur Henderson, commander of the League’s Sultana Ninth Regiment.  Dmitri was not truly surprised to find that he was not dead, as the official records claimed.  Imperial Security had a great deal of experience falsifying official records.  “Yes, sir,” Dmitri replied.  “Major Neumann often mentions you as a particularly dangerous adversary.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I did nearly kill him once.  It’s a shame I didn’t try harder back then, but I was focused on Political Education, and Imperial Security was honestly an afterthought.  The Hands of the Emperor were good at counterinsurgency, certainly better than the Eyes of the Emperor are now.  Your people just don’t have much regard for what proles can accomplish.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri stopped himself before he began to defend the honor of Imperial Security to an infamous terrorist.  They had come here to gather information, not to debate the merits of rival secret police agencies.  “Sir, we’re here because of what a prole has done.  We’re hoping that you can help us.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irina drew a small package out of her pocket, stepped forward, and slid it through a gap at the base of the glass wall..  Henderson sat cross-legged on the floor and rummaged through the package, smiling with approval.  Dmitri couldn’t see everything that was in the package, but he glimpsed a data cube, a fountain pen and paper, and a package of cheap cigarettes.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very nice, Irina,” Henderson said, a sudden grin splitting his face from ear to ear. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the air.  “But as I recall, the last time I helped you was when Neumann came here to ask for the League’s help hunting down the last remnants of Political Education.  That was obviously a special circumstance.  So unless you’re here to overthrow the Emperor, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to run back to your master and tell him that I said </span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Check the data cube,” Irina suggested.  “If you still don’t want to help us, I’ll walk out of here and you can enjoy your cigarettes in peace.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The old terrorist had an impressive poker face, and Dmitri couldn’t read his expression at all as he watched the recording.  When he was done, he rewound to the beginning and watched the whole thing again.  Dmitri turned to face the wall, ashamed of his cowardice but unwilling to observe the hideous scene if he didn’t have to.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henderson said, “Golitsin always was dramatic.  He got the job done, but he loved to show off.  One time I told him to bring me the head of a Vor and he literally brought me the man’s head in a bag.”  He took a deep breath full of smoke, then blew it out.  “This looks just like his work.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did he hate galactics when you knew him?,” Dmitri asked.  “Can you tell us why he would do something like this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henderson shook his head.  “No.  Golitsin hated the Vor, obsessively.  Constantly.  He was always wanting to kill Vor, even when it didn’t make any sense.  But he never said anything about hating foreigners, not where I could hear him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing?,” Irina said.  She frowned at Henderson.  “You’d think there would be some hint of this.  People don’t usually just start murdering galactics for no reason.  Was there anything unusual about Golitsin, anything that could be behind this kind of change?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smoke drifted in the air between them as Henderson pondered the question.  Dmitri fought back a cough as he considered his own questions.  Why would Golitsin return after all these years?  Why would he write a manifesto against foreigners rather than the Vor or ImpSec, the people who had hunted him and tried to kill him?  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There were times,” Henderson said.  “When he behaved...oddly.  I trusted Golitsin, made him one of my captains, but he wasn’t a perfect soldier.  Golitsin was hungry for glory, eager to make a name for himself.”  Henderson took a deep draw on the cigarette.  “And there was one other thing.  Sometimes, against certain targets, Golitsin </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>take credit.  He asked me to give his kill to others, or to conceal the identity of the soldiers who had performed the mission. ”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irina’s eyes narrowed, and Dmitri leaned forward.  “Which targets, sir?,” he said.  The terrorist lowered his head, and Dmitri heard the sound of a fountain pen scratching against paper.  Biting back the temptation to demand answers at once, he made himself sit patiently, waiting for Henderson to finish.  When the sheet of paper finally slid under the wall, Dmitri practically jumped on it.  </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Peter Kowal, retired general of the Service</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Edward Arbuthnot, industrialist</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Anatoly Juric, so-called “Count”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The first two names meant nothing to Dmitri, but Count Vorjuric was different.  Everyone knew about Vorjuric.  He held up the paper so that Irina could see, and watched as her eyes widened with surprise.  “We need to leave now,” she said abruptly.  “You gave us three names.  Pick three political prisoners who </span>
  <em>
    <span>aren’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>terrorists, and they’ll get Imperial pardons before Winterfair.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” Henderson said approvingly.  “Give the Major my regards, Irina.  If I see you and Lieutenant Remis again, you’ll have to tell me the full story of what happened with Golitsin.”    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stepped back into the elevator, and Dmitri followed her obediently, mind still whirling with confusion.  His last sight before the doors slammed shut was Henderson smiling behind a cloud of cigarette smoke, eyes alight with amused curiosity.  </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Comrade Captain Kristof Golitsin was absolutely, indisputably dead.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The evidence was neatly laid out on Major Neumann’s desk.  There was an old-fashioned death warrant with Minister Grishnov’s signature in red ink, condemning Golitsin for the crimes of murder and treason.  The death certificate sat next to the warrant, providing mute confirmation that Golitsin had been executed at 3:15 A.M. with a single nerve disruptor bolt to the base of the skull.  One last memo stated that his body had been cremated, and the ashes dumped into the sewers of Vorbarra Sultana, the only proper fate for a traitor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would have been very convincing except for the fact that Kristof Golitsin was still alive.  Seen in that light, Dmitri thought that the evidence told a very different story.  It was an ugly, dishonorable tale, but it had the small advantage of being true.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” he said numbly, “the People’s Defense League served as Imperial executioners.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irina placed a steaming cup of tea in front of him, and he sipped automatically.  The warm liquid did nothing to push away the chill creeping through Dmitri’s mind.  Golitsin had taken three lives anonymously, without seeking credit.  All three men had been, in their own way, political opponents to Emperor Ezar; their deaths at the hands of the League had prompted an outcry for the secret police to do something about the terrorist threat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emperor Ezar was an oathbreaker.  Dmitri had already known that he cared nothing for his duty to his subjects, and this was just further proof of the old Emperor’s betrayal.  Emperor Yuri had been a lunatic, Emperor Ezar a tyrant, Crown Prince Serg worse than his father and his uncle.  Maybe the League was right, and Barrayar would be better off without the Vor.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No.  Emperor Gregor held his oath, and he was no lunatic or monster, just a child who needed Dmitri’s loyalty and protection.  Regent Vorkosigan ruled the Imperium, and he was an honorable man, everything that a Vor lord should be.  He would never betray his people.  Emperor Gregor was Crown Prince Serg’s son, though.  Vorbarra blood ran in his veins, and the Vorbarra madness was in the blood...        </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irina said, “Dmitri.  You can have your moral crisis when Golitsin isn’t on the loose, preparing to butcher another house full of civilians.  I don’t care how you feel about the whole Imperial system right now, because this isn’t about the </span>
  <em>
    <span>yebanny</span>
  </em>
  <span> Imperium.  It’s about the living people who will be dead unless you </span>
  <em>
    <span>do your job</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri had flinched away from the image of the dining room before, but now he closed his eyes and let himself remember.  Tomas Vorcaron, with the two swords of the Vor driven through his heart.  Elise Vorcaron, with her own Vorfemme knife buried in her throat.  Henry Gillespie, who had died far from home.  And the others, the guests and servants and children, a list of names he could not remember, their bodies stacked carelessly to the side as if it had been easier to kill them than to leave them alive.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”  Dmitri opened his eyes.  “Golitsin was an agent of Political Education, but the Ministry no longer exists.  Let’s assume for a second that he isn’t just an angry man who wants to murder random galactics and anyone who associates with them.  What did this attack achieve?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were dark circles under Major Neumann’s eyes, and his suit looked like he had slept in it.  But his eyes were still sharp and focused, and he tilted his head, considering.  “It sent a message.  If the Sons kill foreigners who come to Barrayar, then fewer galactics will be willing to visit.  The point of terrorism is to use fear to produce a desired response, and the most likely response here is that Barrayar will be further isolated from galactic culture and galactic business.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It frightened Dmitri to hear Major Neumann speak like this, as if none of it affected him at all.  It frightened him more to imagine a day when he could do the same, when betrayal and atrocity would simply be another part of his work.  In this moment, that kind of clarity could save lives, so he forced himself to push past his own horror and think about what that meant.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri said, “If his purpose is to isolate Barrayar, if he is trying to push galactics out, where will he strike next?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Komarrans,” Irina said immediately.  “He mentioned Betans and Komarrans in the manifesto.  The galactics are already upset over how Regent Vorkosigan crushed the Revolt, and Golitsin can give them another Barrayaran atrocity against Komarrans.  One more reason to stay away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next four hours passed in a blur, and Dmitri found himself struggling to keep his eyes open as they worked through target after target.  A surprising number of Komarrans lived on Barrayar, mostly in Vorbarra Sultana, and it was obvious that they couldn’t guard all of them.  Golitsin could act, while they could only respond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unless.  Henderson’s voice whispered in his ear, and he heard the old terrorist’s words.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Golitsin hated the Vor, obsessively.”  “He got the job done, but he loved to show off.”  </span>
  </em>
  <span>His first target had been a house full of Vor.  He had killed Tomas Vorcaron with his own swords, and Elise Vorcaron with her own knife.  Wasting precious time on theatrics.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri reached across to the table and picked up a picture of Golitsin.  He was a plain man, with shaggy brown hair and brown eyes, looking at the camera with a small, amused smile.  Political Education had probably given him a new face, but he was still the same grandiose murderer looking for a chance to show off.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Give him a target,” Dmitri said.  “Something big, something impressive.  Right in the middle of the capital, so that everyone can see what Kristof Golitsin has done.  If he’s willing to keep striking small targets in the country, we’ll never stop him in time.  Give him something big, and see if he bites.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Major Neumann was bent over his desk, staring blankly at a stack of papers, but he slowly straightened, a smile creeping over his tired face.  “A proper target,” he said.  “Komarrans and High Vor and ImpSec, all in the same place.  And perhaps a personal touch, a reminder of Golitsin’s glory days.  Why would he hide along the periphery when he could strike boldly at the very heart of the Imperium?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pushed the papers to the side and rose to his feet.  “Irina, Dmitri, get to sleep,” Neumann ordered.  “You’ll need your rest.  Both of you are going to have a very busy day tomorrow.”    </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was good to be back in Vorbarra Sultana.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Augustgrad had been dead, but the capital was full of life.  A river of pedestrians walked past Dmitri, or sometimes into Dmitri, with no hesitation or fear.  A handful of harried-looking municipal guards tried to keep traffic flowing while groundcars honked and drivers screamed profanity in three languages.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>An enormous billboard loomed over the street, proclaiming its message in brilliant red letters.  “JOINT VENTURE BETWEEN BARRAYAR AND KOMARR!  INVEST IN THE EMPEROR GREGOR TRADE FLEET!”  On the billboard, a smiling Komarran woman reached out to shake hands with a solemn Barrayaran man, ushering in a new age of peace and prosperity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was an impressive sight, especially since Major Neumann had made the whole thing up less than four days ago.  Dmitri had never gotten less sleep in his life, including his first year at the Academy.  Even Imperial Security’s vast skill at lying had been tested to its limits, promoting the sudden revelation of a previously secret project to create a joint Barrayaran-Komarran trade fleet.  It was going to be difficult when that trade fleet dissolved in a few weeks, one more failure of Regent Vorkosigan’s “Komarran integration”.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri suspected that Major Neumann’s superiors were not happy with their plan.  However, they were even less pleased by the idea of having to explain why a Barrayaran terrorist was murdering foreigners, so their project had been reluctantly approved.  The only question left was whether Golitsin would take the bait, and Dmitri suspected that he would.  The target was simply too big to pass up.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The conference center stood at the intersection of two streets, a modern building of steel and glass surrounded by mansions that might have dated back to the Time of Isolation.  Even at this early hour, it was already drawing a crowd of curious observers.  A man in green and white livery stood stiffly before the entrance of the conference center, ignoring the eyes upon him.  Beside him, a smaller sign proclaimed the FIRST SHAREHOLDERS MEETING OF THE EMPEROR GREGOR TRADE FLEET.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and Dmitri spun, hand dropping towards his hip before he caught himself.  A small woman, almost a girl, stood before him, dressed like a university student in trousers and a heavy jacket.  She smiled politely up at Dmitri and held out a box.  “Can I ask you for a donation, sir?  To the Prince Serg Orphanage?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri tried to return her smile, but her face froze, and she took a step back.  “Sir,” she said cautiously, “Is everything all right?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” Irina said pleasantly.  She had appeared out of nowhere at his elbow.  “Escobar is a painful memory for my friend, but I’d be happy to make a donation.”  She opened her wallet, took out a bill with Emperor Dorca’s face, and placed it in the box.  The girl flushed with gratitude and stammered her thanks before rushing towards an older man in a business suit, leaving Dmitri alone with Irina.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irina said, “Dmitri.  I told you that we would talk later.  Well, later is now.  We’ve got hours to burn before the meeting even starts.”  She put a hand on his elbow and steered him away from the crowd, heading towards one of the ancient mansions next to the conference center.  There was an old oak in the backyard, and Irina seated herself against it.  Dmitri came stiffly to attention in front of her, preparing to report to his senior officer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Irina told him.  “Sit down, relax, and disregard rank.”  Her lips tilted up.  “As a woman I’m not legally an officer anyway.  Just imagine that you’re talking to your priest.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri slowly lowered himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged across from Irina.  “I...had disloyal thoughts,” he admitted.  “In Augustgrad.  I sympathized with the League.”  Irina looked at him calmly, without judgement, and her gaze made him feel brave enough to continue.  “When we found out that Golitsin worked for the Ministry of Political Education, I thought that Emperor Ezar wasn’t a true Vor.  He didn’t protect his people like an Emperor should.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irina seemed remarkably unconcerned with his treason.  Gathering his resolve, Dmitri made himself keep going.  “I told myself that Yuri had been mad and Ezar was a tyrant and Serg…”  He hesitated.  “My father sent us a letter during the war with Escobar.  One of his friends was going home with a war wound, and he sent a message with him.  The friend snuck the letter past the political officers, and he brought it to Mom.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dad had wanted to serve his Emperor in an honorable war.  A Vorremis was meant to die for the Emperor, but it had not been right and proper for Dad to die over Escobar.  Dmitri said, “Serg was not a proper Vor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irina waited for him to finish.  When it was clear that he was done, she said, “Dmitri, do you think I’m going to report you because you had bad thoughts about the Vorbarra dynasty?”  He couldn’t stop himself from scowling at Irina, hearing suppressed laughter in her voice.  “I don’t have some kind of feudal loyalty to the Vorbarras, Dmitri.  I’m not Vor.  I started working for Major Neumann because he paid me money, and I’m loyal to ImpSec because it’s the only job I know.  Do you think I could find other work?  Would I teach small children, like your mother?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri laughed despite his anger.  “You would be terrible,” he told her.  “All of the children would go home crying.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Everyone </span>
  </em>
  <span>has doubts,” Irina said.  “I’d be more worried if you didn’t have a problem with anything we do.  You’re not a sociopath, so you’re going to have some issues with ImpSec.  But you don’t need to bottle them up.  Talk to me or the Major, and we can help you through it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought that she meant it.  Irina was not the comrade he had imagined when he entered the Political Service.  She was rude and frustrating and she didn’t care about the Vor or honor at all, and Dmitri was honestly lucky to have her.     </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She got to her feet.  “All right.  We’re going to take down a Political Education agent who wants to murder a whole conference center full of people.  Afterwards, we’ll get drunk and you can tell me all about your feelings. Good plan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri rose with her.  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.  It did feel oddly like going to confession, though Irina was the farthest thing in the world from a priest.  “I’m ready for duty.”  </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The armored groundcar pulled up in front of the conference center, and Dmitri felt his heart pounding in his chest.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A Vorjuric armsman in green and white opened the groundcar door, and Count Miklos Vorjuric stepped out.  He was instantly surrounded by a flood of men and women in suits, smiling and bowing in front of the chief investor of the imaginary Emperor Gregor Trade Fleet.  More armsman formed a box around him, keeping their liege from being overwhelmed by the crowd, and he slowly made his way forward while cameras flashed from the news vans parked across the street. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irina was waiting above them, armed with a needle rifle and backed up by ImpSec’s finest sniper team, but Dmitri still breathed a sigh of relief when the Count passed through the entrance.  One danger was past, at least.  Now it was his turn.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was easy enough to push his way through the crowd and work around to the back of the building, invisible among the Vorbarra Sultana traffic.  At home everyone knew who he was, but here in the city no one cared.  It was easy to go unseen in the capital as long as you walked quickly and kept your head down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Golitsin could be anywhere among these people, hiding in plain sight.  It would be safer for him to walk away, to strike at an easier target, but Dmitri didn’t think that he would.  The man they were hunting had murdered Count Anatoly Vorjuric along with a hundred other people at a theatre; he wouldn’t be frightened away by a handful of guards.  Not when he had a chance to kill Anatoly Vorjuric’s son.         </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two more green-and-white armsmen stood outside the back door, watching Dmitri as he broke away from the flow of the crowd and made his way towards the building.  He saw the distinctive bulge of body armor beneath their uniforms, and Dmitri made sure that his hands were clearly visible as both of them reached for weapons.  The tall man had a nerve disruptor, while the smaller man held a plasma arc in one hand.    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Halt,” the smaller man ordered, and he stayed very still as the tall armsman lifted a scanner and ran it over his face.  Brilliant white light flashed in Dmitri’s eyes, and he looked away, raising a hand to shield his face.  Another flash of white light shone through his hand as the armsman scanned his fingerprints.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tall man said, “He’s clear.”  His smaller comrade lowered the plasma arc that had been not quite pointing at Dmitri’s chest, though Dmitri noticed that he didn’t lower it too far.  “Lieutenant Dmitri Vorremis, ImpSec.  What’s the problem, Lieutenant?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s no problem,” Dmitri said respectfully.  The small man looked like he was in his forties, while the tall armsman seemed to be just a few years older than Dmitri.  “I just need to be sure that you haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like an assassin?”  The small armsman’s gaze was not friendly.  “The assassin who is aiming for our Count?  If you ImpSec...gentlemen hadn’t developed this </span>
  <em>
    <span>brilliant </span>
  </em>
  <span>idea, our liege would be safe at home.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri said, “Golitsin murdered Anatoly Vorjuric, so Miklos Vorjuric will avenge him.  It is a son’s duty.”  The small armsman’s glower did not fade, but he nodded reluctantly.  “We will do everything in our power to keep your Count safe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The security here seemed strong, and there were twice as many armsmen at the front door.  An ImpSec bomb squad had gone over every inch of the building before the opening, and a dozen of the investors were plainclothes officers watching for any hint of danger.  Try as he might, Dmitri couldn’t imagine how Golitsin was going to get inside.  Could he be waiting nearby, planning to shoot Count Vorjuric as soon as he left?  But then why hadn’t he taken the shot when Vorjuric was arriving?  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could have tried a window, but there were six armsmen on patrol around the building, checking for any side of intrusion.  The conference center was unlikely to have the secret tunnels or hidden basement of an old mansion from the Time of Isolation.  The only other entrances were the front and back doors, and the armsmen stationed there were checking the faces and fingerprints of everyone who entered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri walked inside, hearing the slight </span>
  <em>
    <span>click </span>
  </em>
  <span>of the weapons detector as it registered the nerve disruptor tucked into his jacket.  The only people cleared to carry arms were Vorjuric armsmen and ImpSec officers.  Even if Golitsin had gotten in disguised as an investor, the detector would have caught him at the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walked silently across the heavy carpet, glancing into rooms that held nothing but tables and chairs, hunting for any sign of anything out of the ordinary.  There were four “janitors” gathered outside the room that held the investors, casually standing around while their eyes searched for any sign of danger.  They checked Dmitri’s ID, and he checked theirs in turn.  All was as it should be, but he felt no temptation to relax.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The conference room was as silent and empty as the grave.  Dmitri knew that ImpSec had inspected every inch of the building before the meeting, and he had personally seen that all of the entrances were locked down.  It was increasingly likely that their trap had simply failed, and that Golitsin was murdering some Komarran family on the other side of town while they lurked here, hoping for him to show up.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He retraced his steps, following his route back to the exit and looking for anything he might have missed.  There were no terrorists lurking in cabinets or bombs hidden under desks.  Nothing at all to suggest that Golitsin had somehow slipped past security.  As his steps took him back towards the rear doors, Dmitri began to wonder what their next step would be if their trap failed.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The small armsman greeted him with a smile.  “All quiet here, Lieutenant,” he said.  “It looks like our assassin might not show up.”  Despite his words, he was still looking around, hunting for snipers on the adjoining buildings.  “The only people who have gotten into that building are the investors, my brother armsmen, and ImpSec.  They’ve even got an extra bomb squad down in the basement, just in case they missed something last time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri said, “Good.”  Maybe he was wrong about Golitsin.  People did change, and the daring terrorist might have become a more cautious man.  Maybe Henderson was wrong about how much Golitsin hated the Vor.  There was so much they didn’t know, and now it seemed that their guesses had been wrong.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your boss didn’t seem too worried,” the small armsman said casually.  “He said that it was better safe than sorry, though, so…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri spun on him.  “My boss!,” he snapped.  “Major Neumann!”  At the armsman’s startled nod, he drew his nerve disruptor.  “Where did he go?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three of them raced towards the basement, weapons drawn, and Dmitri heard the tall armsman screaming into his communicator for backup.  No good, no good, they’d be too late.  Much too late.  He came down the stairs at a run, heedless of the danger, and almost stumbled over the corpse lying at the bottom.  A Vorjuric armsman stared up at him with sightless eyes, and Dmitri paused for a second before the armsmen pushed past him.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A door stood ahead of them, with light shining through the gaps, and the tall armsman burned the lock away with a single shot.  Needle fire rippled through the door, and Dmitri fell to the ground, firing blindly as bolts and needles streaked over his head.  Then the armsmen were running forward, shooting as they went, and Dmitri forced himself to his hands and knees, scrambling forward to the cover of the wall.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The small armsman threw himself flat on the ground, shooting into the room, and Dmitri saw a figure fall, their chest burned away by fire.  A moment later, a bolt of blue fire struck the small armsman in the head.  He spasmed wildly, dropping the plasma arc, and went limp.  Dmitri shot at a man in Service green, missed, and shot again.  The man turned towards him, lifting their own nerve disruptor, and a lance of blue fire struck him in the chest.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tall armsmen stepped cautiously into the room, head turning from side to side.  Dmitri rose to his feet and followed after.  Two dead bodies in Service uniform lay on the ground, and between them was a large canister hooked directly into the conference center’s air circulation system.  When he looked closely, Dmitri could see a red label that said </span>
  <em>
    <span>HAZARDOUS.  </span>
  </em>
  <span>Another just below it read </span>
  <em>
    <span>FLAMMABLE</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  The third label...</span>
  <em>
    <span>SOLTOXIN</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri heard a quiet </span>
  <em>
    <span>hiss</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and the tall armsman dropped like a puppet with his strings cut.  He saw Major Neumann, wearing a small, amused smile that he had never seen on the Major’s face.  The needler turned towards Dmitri, and he threw himself behind the cover of the wall just before the imposter fired.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were footsteps on the stairway, getting closer, but they would be too late.  Knowing that he had to buy time, Dmitri leaned out over the doorway, shooting as fast as he could pull the trigger.  The imposter’s face was hidden by a gas mask now, and Dmitri’s shots flashed above his head as he went to one knee.  The return fire flickered past Dmitri’s face, and he felt a sudden stinging pain in his cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Golitsin was going to kill everyone.  Golitsin was going to win.  Dmitri couldn’t win a shootout with a veteran terrorist.  His eyes fell on the plasma arc, and he snatched it up.  </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>For Gregor</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he told himself, and hurled himself into the doorway, falling on his side while needles streaked above his head.  He aimed the plasma arc, not at Golitsin, but at the canister beginning to send its poison into the air.  Dmitri pulled the trigger, and a brilliant line of white light struck the canister.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The world burst into flames around him, and he screamed as he burned.  </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“You were only mostly dead, Vorling.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri coughed painfully.  He would have said something rude to Irina, but right now it hurt to talk.  It hurt to breathe.  The machine </span>
  <em>
    <span>beeped</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and he relaxed as another dose of painkillers went into his system.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irina smiled down at him.  “We ran a DNA test while you were out.  The man wearing the Major’s face was definitely Golitsin, but he’s not telling us anything.  There was barely enough of him left to run the test.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” Dmitri rasped.  “No more murders.  He was wearing, wearing...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fortunately, Irina seemed to guess what he was asking.  “ImpSec is making inquiries,” she said.  “We’re very interested in who could have given him Major Neumann’s face.  Unfortunately, you blew up most of the evidence.”  She raised a hand as he coughed furiously.  “I’m not complaining, Dmitri.  All of the civilians survived, and Golitsin is deader than dead.  That counts as a happy ending in my book.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mine as well,” the Major said, stepping into the room.  Dmitri had never seen him in uniform before, and he looked oddly out of place in parade red-and-blues.  “We can always investigate later.  Right now I’m just glad that you’re still alive.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri nodded weakly.  “Yes, sir,” he said.  A sudden, horrifying thought occurred to him.  “Sir, my mother!  Does she know?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irina said, “She’s on the way here now.”  Dmitri slumped in relief, and she continued.  “I called her when the medics were sure that you were going to pull through.  She’s worried about you, but I did tell her that you were going to get about a month to rest and recuperate once you get out of the hospital.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That sounded like the best idea Dmitri had ever heard.  A month at home, with peace and quiet and horses, and no terrorists who turned out to be Political Education spies.  He would start off by sleeping for a week, and then he would eat actual food, not just military ration bars and cheap take-out.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the end, though, he would need to come back.  Mom would be unhappy, but she would understand.  Dmitri was in the Imperial Service, like his father and grandfather.  Like Basil Remis, fighting with Emperor Stefan in the Battle of Seven Armies and One.  He was a Vorremis, and it was their privilege to serve.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Major,” Irina said.  “Before he was injured, Dmitri told me </span>
  <em>
    <span>awful </span>
  </em>
  <span>things about the Vorbarras.  Apparently he doesn’t think that our beloved rulers have always behaved honorably.”  A smile flickered across the Major’s face, so briefly that Dmitri could almost have imagined it.  “What kind of punishment does he deserve?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Major Neumann shook his head.  “Dmitri,” he said.  “I don’t think you should go around criticizing the Vorbarras in public, but I won’t pretend that the Emperors- or their servants- always have clean hands.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>haven’t always had clean hands, but I am trying to do better.”  He paused before he spoke again, eyes sharp and intent as he considered his next words.  “I’m not Vor.  At first  I was only loyal to Captain Negri, who recruited me and raised me up.  Now that he’s gone, I’m loyal to my job.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your job?,” Dmitri asked.  It wasn’t proper to have an officer in the Imperial Service who </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>loyal to the Emperor.  All of them had taken oaths, Vor and prole together.  It was wrong to swear an oath without meaning it.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Major’s first oath would have been to Emperor Ezar.  The man who had used Golitsin to murder his political enemies.  The man who had protected his son, even as Prince Serg…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Major Neumann said, “I’m not getting any younger, Dmitri.  In due time, I want to hand my work to someone who understands the importance of what we do, someone who cares about the consequences of our failures.”  His gaze became distant, and he looked through Dmitri, as if seeing someone who wasn’t there.  “As long as the job was done, Captain Negri’s ImpSec did not care about the people we hurt along the way.  I want a successor who will do better than we did.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dmitri didn’t know what to say.  After a moment, the Major shook his head.  “That’s a discussion for another time,” he said.  “Get some rest, Lieutenant.  Your mother will be here soon enough.”  He rose and left the room, heels clicking against the tile floor.  Dmitri watched him go, then turned towards Irina.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She didn’t look angry, but Dmitri already knew that she was a good liar.  He tried to imagine giving Irina orders, telling her what to do rather than following her lead, and found the idea unsettling.  She was his senior, a veteran of the Political Education purge and the Pretendership, but Irina could never take the Major’s place.  Imperial Security required a man to run the Prole Office, even if Irina was an officer in all but name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irina said, “Don’t be stupid, Dmitri.  Did you think that the Major and I haven’t talked about this before?”  Dmitri blinked in surprise, and she smirked at him.  “You’ve done all right for a green lieutenant.  Most of the other candidates wouldn’t listen to a woman, or they only wanted to stay long enough to earn a transfer to the Vor Office.  You want to do the work, and you’re willing to learn.  That’s enough for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Th-thank you, ma’am,” Dmitri stammered.  “I won’t let you down.”  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Major </span>
  </em>
  <span>Vorremis?  It was still impossibly far off, but he couldn’t imagine why the Major and Irina would be willing to even consider him.  There had to be far better candidates, older men with far more experience.  But it wasn’t his place to question their judgement, not in a matter like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d better not,” Irina said cheerfully.  “Enjoy your vacation, Vorling.  We’ll have a mountain of work waiting for you when we get back.”  She hummed to herself as she walked out the door, leaving Dmitri alone in the dim light of his hospital room.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closed his eyes, and slept without dreaming.</span>
</p>
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